Le paradis n'est pas artificiel …

November 15, 2013


Iíve been here writing like this before and will again, but will never know it. There is only approaching and retreating from it, as a process, as breathing or making love. To be a writer is to constanly flux: always to be beginning to write, then writing, ending writing; to be stopping for a horrible killed moment againÖ but always be writing is no more writing than just not, I think, or no more than to always be about to. All this pendulate motion is what compels my senses, and nothing like it can be completed in stasis. So this is one of the dimensions of myself ó to always move in knowing to inscribe knowledge in movement. There I am in the gerund again; yes, Iíve written all this before. So another aspect or dimension of my life (and perhaps more significant in exlicit terms than the cerebral momentum alone) is my movement or placement in physical space: where I sit taking it all in, or being taken by place. This now today I am thinking of or arranging (writing, I suppose, which shows the primacy of mind to me as I am myself) across an entire landscape of concepts ó a map of connotation, so overwritten and with each attribute of rising or falling significance, subsiding or spiking: cafes I sit in, beds where I sleep, conversations ongoing, electric or failing echoes as the final significances of last words fade out of any meaning; hurts, definitely: wounds feature immensely as spiky highs hardly worn by time. Signal tower points. Then maybe the fear, lower down: the terror-criticís voice isnít there, but there is a low current that carries on down. I think of the settling of a vast sheet that falls into place over all, after this so complete relocation of myself (mind, body, world, occupation, emotion) so everything has changed, or Iíve changed everything. Yes, Iíve found an entirely new place to be, but it is the same surface over all.

Posted by Delire at November 15, 2013 09:10 AM